Gone With a Handsomer Man (21 page)

“Surely Mr. Jackson didn’t kick her out of the family for that,” I said.

“That happened later. After Eileen got sent to jail.”

“What did she do?”

“Ben robbed a 7-Eleven and she drove the getaway truck. Well, that was it for Rodney. He called the estate lawyer. Knocked his own flesh and blood out of her rightful inheritance. And left it all to Bing. Now, the crazy cat lady is back in town.” Miss Dora glanced at me. “Just take care of yourself, Teeny. No one is safe around Eileen.”

twenty-seven

The sun was dipping behind the trees when we drove past The Citadel and pulled up to the lawyer’s office.

“You’re a great driver, Miss Dora,” I said. “How did you learn your way around Charleston? I’ve been here nearly six months, and I still don’t understand the one-way streets.”

“It’s easy to find your way, darlin’. Charleston is shaped like a giant pecker, and North Charleston is the tight little ball sack. Once you figure that out, driving is a snap.”

We stepped into the building. The sign in the lobby had fifty thousand surnames. Miss Dora drew her finger under
QUENTIN K. UNDERHILL
and led me down the hall. The secretary escorted us to a conference room with a long table.

“Mr. Underhill will be with you momentarily,” she said and shut the door.

“This decor is making me nauseous,” Miss Dora said, glancing at the navy blue walls. They were covered with old maps of Charleston. We sat down. A moment later, the door swung open and a spidery, middle-aged man walked in. His narrow face was dominated by thick tortoiseshell eyeglasses. His brown summer suit waffled on his thin frame as he strode toward us. He set down an accordion folder and shook Miss Dora’s hand.

“So sorry for your loss,” he told Miss Dora.

“Thank you, Quentin,” she said.

He gave me a long stare and sat down at the other end of the table. The accordion folder creaked as he pulled out papers. “Is your name Christine or Teeny?”

The way he said my name, you’d think it was toxic waste. “Teeny is my nickname,” I said.

“Are you going to do a reading of the will?” Miss Dora asked.

“Lawyers don’t actually read wills unless the family requests it. We mail them. Anyway, Bing didn’t have a will. He had a revocable living trust, just like his daddy did.” Mr. Underhill turned to me. “But I assume you know this?”

“No, sir.” I shook my head. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It was set up to avoid probate.” Mr. Underhill handed me a thick document. “Bing designated you as the trustee, along with the First National Bank of South Carolina as the successive trustee.”

Miss Dora crossed her legs, the pantyhose swishing. “What does that mean?”

“That she inherits everything,” Mr. Underhill said. “Bing had properties from North Carolina to Georgia, mostly along the coast. Now they belong to you, Miss Templeton. Well, except for one property. The Spencer-Jackson House on 99½ East Bay Street. Just before Bing died, he sold that property to Miss Natalie Lockhart. She submitted a copy of the sale contract.”

“Sale contract?” Miss Dora blinked. “For what?”

“For the Spencer-Jackson House,” Mr. Underhill said. “As you can see,” he added, “it was signed by Bing and Miss Lockhart on June fifth.”

“The day after I hit them with peaches,” I whispered.

“Pardon me?” Mr. Underhill leaned forward.

“Never mind that,” Miss Dora said. “I’m all confused. Surely you’re not saying that Bing sold the Spencer-Jackson?”

“I was surprised, too, but apparently he changed his mind.” Mr. Underwood showed her the contract.

“I don’t believe it.” Miss Dora reached into her bag, pulled out a pink Kleenex, and dragged it over her forehead. “Bing would never sell that house. Never.”

“Well, he did.” Mr. Underhill blinked. “And the paperwork is in order.”

“Let me see that document,” Miss Dora said.

“It’s notarized,” he told her. “You can view the original at the Register of Deeds office. I’ve spoken with Miss Lockhart, and she has graciously allowed Miss Templeton to remain in the house for thirty days—or until the house sells.”

“Graciously? Here we go again.” Miss Dora rolled her eyes. “May I ask how much Bing sold the house for?”

Mr. Underhill’s cheeks reddened. “$500,000.”

“That’s absurd,” Miss Dora cried. “Even if Bing
had
changed his mind, he wouldn’t have sold that house for a bargain-basement price. It’s worth millions.”

“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the true story.” Mr. Underhill folded his hands and pressed them against his chin. “Bing had scheduled a meeting with me next week, presumably to change his trust. But he was murdered.”

“Maybe that woman sweet-talked him into selling the Spencer-Jackson House,” Miss Dora said. “Or she got him drunk!”

“Do you have proof?” Mr. Underhill asked.

“Well, no, but—”

“If you find evidence of wrongdoing, I’ll be happy to help you.”

“I’m sure you would.” Miss Dora glared at him. “Just make sure that an allowance is made available to this young lady. She’s practically destitute. And she’s fixing to start a cake baking business.”

“It was my understanding that Miss Templeton is a suspect in Bing’s murder. The trust can’t be settled until her name is cleared, or until—”

“So, she won’t get a dime until the police find who really killed Bing?” Miss Dora cried.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Miss Dora said. “What happens if she’s found guilty?”

“The bank will be the sole trustee.”

“What if she’s found innocent? What then?”

“If this should happen, Miss Templeton would be a wealthy woman. A monthly allowance would be set up, of course. And if she wished to purchase property, she’d have to discuss it with the bank. They would, of course, help her manage the entireties.”

“Entireties?” I asked. “What’s that?”

“The Jacksons’ properties,” he said. “Strip malls, beachfront condos, office buildings.”

“What’s she supposed to live on until the trust is settled?” Miss Dora asked. “Can’t you give her an advance?”

“That’s up to the bank,” he said. “And the justice system. But there’s another problem.”

“What?” Miss Dora rubbed her forehead.

“Mr. Jackson’s sister is challenging the trust.”

“Oh, come now, Quentin,” Miss Dora said. “We went through this after Rodney died. Eileen challenged his trust—and you told her to skedaddle.”

“I’m merely advising you that it may be a while before the trust is settled.”

Miss Dora and I got up to leave. On our way out the door, Mr. Underhill said, “Remember, Miss Templeton. You can only stay in the house thirty days or until it sells.”

*   *   *

Since Mr. Underhill’s office was near the Ashley River, Miss Dora invited me to lunch at the Crab House. During the drive across the bridge, she was uncharacteristically silent, touching her pink nails against the steering wheel the way Eileen had tapped the cat carriers. Behind us, the beige Camry hovered at a distance.

We caught the Wappoo drawbridge when it was down and drove over the creek. Finally, she pulled into the Crab House parking lot. So did the Camry.

A waitress seated us next to the window. We ordered coconut fried shrimp with she-crab soup. Miss Dora’s phone kept ringing, and she barked orders to her painters. “They did what?” she cried, and her face tightened. “Oh, for pity’s sake. We’ll discuss this later.”

She threw the phone into her purse and grabbed the waitress’s arm. “Darlin’, bring me a pomegranate martini. Teeny? You need something?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, I’m not,” Miss Dora said as the waitress bustled off. “The hysterical society is raising holy hell over my paint colors, inside and out. I should be allowed to paint my house purple if I want. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Life isn’t like a box of goddamn chocolates, Teeny. It’s more like pasta—curly as rotini, versatile as tortellini.”

I dipped my spoon into the she-crab soup. It was thick, with orange roe and a hint of sherry. Almost every restaurant in Charleston offered she-crab soup on the menu, but the Crab House version couldn’t be beat. I took my time, savoring each mouthful. If I had their recipe, I’d die a happy woman.

We shared key lime pie for dessert. As we were leaving, a sailboat bobbed toward the bridge. We got into the Bentley. Miss Dora hit the gas and swerved onto the road, shrouding the Camry with exhaust fumes.

“Let’s lose those nitwits,” she said and pointed at the bridge. “I bet I can beat that sailboat.”

I wasn’t so sure. I stared up at a yellow light and the drawbridge sign. The yellow light turned red, and a pole started to drop over the road.

“Oh, bother,” she said and pushed her foot against the gas pedal.

“Miss Dora, no!” I cried.

“Oh, poo,” she said and mashed the pedal harder.

In the opposite lane, traffic had stopped as the pole continued to fall. A red light flashed in Miss Dora’s sunglasses as she sped under the barrier. The sailboat was almost to the bridge.

“Hit it, Bessie!” she yelled to her car and squeezed the steering wheel. I muffled a scream as the bridge cracked apart and started to rise. The Bentley zoomed up one half of the bridge, the tires singing on the metal seams.

“Stop!” I cried. “I’m getting out.” My heart whooshed in my ears, and my lunch was trying to come up. I grabbed the door handle, ready to jump.

“Too late now.” She hit the power lock. “They won’t arrest me.”

“Arrest? We could die!”

“Not with me behind the wheel.”

“But—”

“Hush now, and let me drive.”

Each half of the drawbridge inched up and up. My fingers dug into the leather seat. The Bentley rose into the air, leaped over the gap, and shuddered when the tires hit the metal on the other side. I shut my eyes as she drove down the still-rising ramp.

Her front fender broke through the pole. The pieces flew over the car and shattered against the pavement. “Tra la la,” Miss Dora sang as she sped off the bridge.

“See?” She twirled one hand in the air. “Easy peasy. Sorry if I frightened you. But I lost your police escort.”

“They’ll catch up.”

“They aren’t the only reason I’m rushing,” she said. “My supper club meets tonight at six thirty sharp. You just don’t know how compulsive Mary Martha is.”

“Mary Martha?”

“Supper club meets at her house tonight. Last year, her own husband showed up late to the dinner. Dessert was being served, and she flat refused to seat him. He had to eat cake in the kitchen, and he’s a big-shot banker. So I wouldn’t like to think what she’d do to me.”

It was only one thirty, plenty of time to make that dinner, but I didn’t dare say so. Miss Dora wasn’t a Charleston native, and she felt as if she had to try extra hard to fit into the world she’d married into.

While she talked about the members of her supper club, rating their decor, she headed back to Charleston. Minutes later, she stopped in front of the Spencer-Jackson House. I looked everywhere for Eileen’s Winnebago, but I didn’t see it.

“Toodle-loo, darlin’,” she said. “Have fun baking.”

“I’ll try,” I said. For once I was glad to be climbing out of the Bentley. My legs were still a little shaky from our race with the drawbridge. I walked toward the palm tree, where the Jackson Realty sign jutted up. When I got closer, I saw a red sticker:
SALE PENDING
.

twenty-eight

Miss Dora jumped out of the Bentley, leaving the motor running, and joined me beside the palm tree. We gaped at the Jackson Realty sign like it was roadkill.

“We need to find out the closing date,” she said.

“What does it matter?” I shrugged.

“Because if they’re closing soon, you don’t have thirty days. Why, you’ll barely have time to find an apartment. Although Bing has tons of rental property. Don’t worry. I’ll help you decorate your new place.”

I nodded, but paint colors were the least of my woes.

She tapped her chin. “Maybe you should call your lawyer.”

“Why?”

“He might know how to fix this. You know, delay the sale—at least until you’re settled elsewhere.”

She pushed her cell phone into my hand. I reluctantly dialed SUE-THEM and got a recording saying that Mr. O’Malley would be out of the office until next week.

“Well?” Miss Dora said. “Did he answer?”

“No.”

“Let’s go to his house. Get in the car, darlin’.” She grabbed the phone. I’d never seen her this flustered. “Where does he live?”

“Isle of Palms.”

“Maybe he’ll be home.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Is there a problem?” Miss Dora asked.

“Well, no, but—”

“But what, darlin’?”

“He’s probably not home. We shouldn’t barge in.”

“You’re paying him. That means you’re calling the shots.” She steered the car with one hand and punched the cell phone’s keypad with the other.

“Is this Billy Lee King’s answering service?” she said. Billy Lee was her personal lawyer, a partner of the gin-rickied Mr. Bell.

“I don’t care if he’s boating,” she cried. “You tell him it’s a legal emergency and to call Dora Jackson or I’ll hunt him down. You tell him that, you hear?”

Miss Dora hung up and made another call. I thought she’d wear out the keypad before we made it across the Ravenel Bridge. I was just thankful the old bridge was gone. The Old Grace had been the scariest bridge in the Carolinas, if not the world, with its two itty-bitty lanes. I had a deep fear of bridges, but the Ravenel wasn’t scary. You wouldn’t know you were on a bridge. Joggers and bike riders sped down a separate lane. The graceful white cables swept by, two diamonds glinting in the sun. Now that I was in a love triangle, I saw them everywhere.

We drove across the bridge, toward the Isle of Palm Connector. I stared out at the spartina grass and palmettos. A broad view opened up, and I saw homes on pilings and a wedge of blue ocean. I couldn’t stop thinking about the trust. I didn’t want a thing to do with it. Bing had died before he could change the trustee, and only the Lord knew who that would’ve been.

“Don’t look so glum, Teeny. Frowning causes premature wrinkles.” Miss Dora shook her head. “But you’ve got a right to be upset—Bing’s whore has sold the house. And in this market!”